Unlikely
by disillusionist9
Summary: Rita Skeeter and Sirius Black never seem to cross paths in canon...or do they? (T) [[Episode 1 of the Unlikely Collection - Series of Rare Pairs]]
1. Scottish

[A/N] Welcome to the brainchild of **duj** 's lovely prompt for my Choose Dare challenge drabbles. She spawned the lovely idea for a myriad (eventually) of short stories for the rarest of rare pairs. If you have any suggestions for such pairings, please let me know and I may make it in to a short story or a drabble! I would enjoy filling the cracks in the metaphorical pavement.

The original prompt was _Scottish_. Let me know what you think or what else you'd like to see! The short tales of Rita and Sirius may not be chronological but if you have an interaction you want from them, shoot me a PM or leave it in a review.

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"If you believe for one moment, Miss Skeeter, that I will consent to your begging for an apprenticeship this time over all the other times you've barged into my office, then you've another thing coming!"

Sirius swore the door hinges were rattling from the force of his Head of Houses' Scottish brogue. He'd been, quite literally, stuck to the wall outside of Professor McGonagall's office by Madame Pince twenty minutes previously and it was obvious she'd been well into a lecture. After several instances on the receiving end of such vitriol he could tell McGonagall was well on her way to reaching her stride.

As he hung there his feet dangled above the cobblestone floor, the toes of the dirty trainers he'd borrowed from James scuffing just barely. If he'd not been bodily manhandled up there himself he would have laughed at anyone claiming the vulture could pin a fourteen year old boy high enough on the castle walls. Honestly, who could blame him for trying to turning Snivellus's greasy hair pink? The textbook explained the incantation and the wand movements well enough and Snape would grow his hair back in the hospital wing overnight, to be sure, just as greasy as before.

The office door violently opened, luckily for him smacking against the opposite wall from his temporary perch. A flurry of silky black robes attached to long golden curls brushed past him, promptly stopping a few steps from the open doorway to turn back to scream at Professor McGonagall in earnest.

"You're a fool, McGonagall! An old, shriveled up excuse of a witch who can't stand the idea of training someone who would _surpass_ you!"

Miss Skeeter was a vision. Shrill? Yes. Angry? Undoubtedly. Beautiful? Quite.

Sirius crossed his arms and checked his nail beds as he waited for Professor McGonagall to notice him against her wall. Suaveness was difficult if you couldn't properly lean but Sirius was no novice. He relaxed as much as possible and chewed his Muggle stick of bubblegum. A particularly large bubble cracked in the silence when the two witches took a breath between bellows.

"Mister Black!" the Transfiguration Professor shrieked, the full force of her gaze on him in an instant.

"Minnie," Sirius replied cheekily as he cracked another bubble.

What sounded suspiciously like an involuntary chuckle escaped the painted red lips of the shaking apprentice-wannabe next to him. Her lips still trembled with suppressed angry tears but her spine was straight and the look in her eyes was almost grateful at the momentary distraction of the Deputy Head's acerbic attention.

"Detention!" Professor McGonagall's face was an unbecoming shade of red at the informal address and her voice lost none of its previous force. It seemed to be the only word she could manage at that moment towards him, correctly assessing the reason he'd been placed outside of her door. In the next blink her steely gaze returned to the young woman. "And you, Miss Skeeter, leave the Hogwarts premises immediately or I will enlist the assistance of whatever castle enchantments are within my power to toss you out the gates."

Throwing her arms above her head in utter exasperation the woman with sharp green eyes and golden hair all but sprinted down the hallway away from the odd tableau of Sirius pasted to the wall next to Professor McGonagall. The dressing down he received in her office barely registered in his memory among all the others he received before. Bright green eyes, even brighter than Lily's, continued to plague him long after Miss Skeeter's departure.


	2. Different Means Different

The years in Azkaban corroded his taste buds to the point where he could properly disillusion himself into believing that poorly roasted rat was an appetizing dinner. At the very least the blaze from his very small fires, never lit for more than a few minutes to not attract undue attention, scorched away any potential fleas or parasites on the meat. Prolonged exposure to Buckbeak also played a factor in his changed palette. The hippogriff had deadly aim with his diamond-hard beak when catching the vermin wandering about their cave.

Their cave. Sirius snorted under his breath as he attempted to darn the hole in the knee of his only pair of pants. He'd never learned household charms, Kreacher was always there, as vile as the house-elf was to him. Who was he now that he called this wretched fissure of rock _his cave_ like it was his home. Still...it was better than the island on the North Sea. It was also much closer to Harry, and with events unfolding like they were that was where he needed to be.

Buckbeack ruffled his feathers behind him in his sleep, disturbing Sirius's thoughts. He needed to step out for some fresh air.

The chilly fall air didn't seep into his bones as much when he was in Animagus form. It only helped the fact that he owned one pair of clothes and the more time he spent in his furry form, the less chance he ruined the trousers and shirt stolen from Remus. He'd never given much thought to where his clothes went when he transformed before he was on the run, but now he had no energy or resources to research it.

His paws were soft against the dying grass on the path down to Hogsmeade. Sometimes after nightfall he would be able to beg a few scraps off of kitchen hands in the Three Broomsticks. He couldn't do it too often; his form was too easily recognizable and frankly caused most of the employees a fright. Thankfully Rosmerta recently hired several more people to help with the influx of patrons, what with the Triwizard Tournament in full swing.

The scent of grilling meat and sizzling eggs pooled in his mouth and nose, creating a heady and nearly hallucinogenic state of mind. Leaning back on his haunches briefly to catch his breath and gather his wits he was content to swim within the heavenly river of cooking smells surrounding him. A sharp smell of cut flowers and alcohol slid through the invisible cloud and disrupted his reverie.

Cracking open one eye he cocked his head in the direction of the intrusive smell to see what was causing it. Colors were muted in this form but he was not colorblind like most dogs, so the acid green quill flitting around a head of golden blonde hair immediately caught his attention.

"Pick up the pace, they'll be weighing the wands soon enough and I want as many shots as possible of our champions!"

The last time he'd heard that voice he was fourteen and unceremoniously stuck to a cobblestone wall. His curiosity was instantly piqued and his paws moved almost of their own volition to silently trail behind the witch and the hovering photographer. A bag swinging next to the man's camera drew him closer and closer. A quick nip and a dozen loping steps and he could the proud owner of a take away bag of breakfast food. It was too dangerous, he couldn't distract Harry and compromise his safety…

Sirius trailed a safe distance behind the two of them, a ball of jealousy growing in his chest as he heard them discuss interviewing the champions, specifically his godson. As they reached the gates they were granted entrance without any chaperones to meet them. The reporter he vaguely recognized and whose identity was plaguing him.

Bright cherry lipstick painting a feral grin caught his attention as she turned and he remembered her name like a punch to the gut. Rita Skeeter, the woman he'd pined after for a few years while he was at Hogwarts, reading each of her small Transfiguration journal publications on advanced transformations. He remembered the pinch of sadness when he realized she'd moved onto a different sort of journalism just as the war was escalating.

With a low whine, he hung his head and loped away from the pair entering the castle grounds and made a point to filch every Daily Prophet he could into his cave. Their cave. A cave that he would never even consider bringing such a beautiful woman to. The years had changed them both, he considered, and not for the better.


	3. Whiter Shade of Pale

A crack of bubble gum broke the emotional tension building outside the storefront of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"An excellent account, to be sure, Mister Horsham." Rita assiduously wrote in her journal, heedless of the trauma written across her subject's face.

"It's Harship, mum." The man muttered uncertainly, turning his bowler round in his fingers, stopping now and again to worry at the stitching around the edges. He found he couldn't quite meet the reporter's gaze, her green eyes regarding him sharply each time he tried.

Rita waved her hand holding the quill in an agitated flourish. "Of course it is, Mister Horsewhip. But what happened next? Did the boy seem to know the man? Were there illicit dealings between them, here, in front of your shop, in broad daylight?"

"I've told you all I know, Miss Skeeter," Harship replied, his voice losing force and volume with each turn of his hat.

"I'm _sure_ if you find anything else worth notice, you'll send me an owl immediately?"

Her smile could melt butter, so warm and sweet, with a voice to match. It made his teeth hurt with its sweetness. He'd lost his voice completely, nodding in defeat as he stumbled back into his store.

The moment the man was out of her sight, Rita stuffed her quill and notepad into her leather shoulder bag. Three more decent stories and she would get the promotion that would earn her a dragonhide bag. Or maybe an assistant to carry whatever bags she needed. Grumbling under her breath at the cageyness of shopkeepers, especially as disappearances or missing persons reports were printed more often in the _Prophet_.

Fortescue's ice cream was the best in England, but Rita clutched at her mug of black coffee as covetously as any child around her with mint chocolate chip. Sitting off to the side she risked pulling a little tin from her blazer pocket. A slim cigarette rolled from the metal with a soft _snick_. Dropping the sweet and delicate facade, she stuck it between her lips and brought her wand up to the tip.

The clink of a Zippo was at the end of the cigarette before her wand tip. Following the line of the hand and arm proffering the light, Rita held her hand up to her eyes to better view the young man.

"Tastes better with a real lighter," he said.

Rita saw a flash of bright teeth before the spark made smoke curl in front of her eyes. Taking a leisurely drag, Rita leaned back in her porch chair, her arm resting on the short fence separating the customers from the rest of the Alley.

"You're one of the Black boys," she said after a few more drags and artful smoke rings. Elegant could not brush the surface of the boy, perhaps almost a man, across from her, poshly leaning against the fence and hair tousled _just so_. His leather jacket gave him away. "Sirius Black."

"You remember, then?" Sirius drew a paper pack from his jacket pocket, a Muggle brand if she wasn't mistaken.

As he lit his own, she cocked her head to the side, regarding him with a lingering once over. She let her eyes rest on his for several moments, and was pleased to see him lean towards her in anticipation. "McGonagall's office?"

Sirius smirked. "Not my best moment."

"Memorable, nonetheless."

"True," Sirius nodded, flicking the remnants of his cigarette towards a waste bin. He turned his gaze towards her, and she got the distinct impression he'd been planning this moment, but was choking. His gaze was intensely focused on her lips for a little too long.

Delicately, she vanished the butt remaining from her own cigarette, standing to leave her empty coffee mug on the table. "It was certainly a...pleasure, Mister Black."

"Sirius," he barked out, a little too eagerly. Even with his leather jacket, torn black jeans, and overall hoodlum attitude, he still held out his arm automatically to assist her through the low iron gate. Rita caught his wince at the volume of his voice as his face turned a bit paler rather than red with embarrassment.

"Sirius," she repeated, tasting his name on her tongue, rolling it around like the first sip of red wine. She accepted his proffered arm. Perhaps if she stayed with him a moment longer, the boy would regain his courage and earnestly try to court her, even if just for the night.

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April 14th, 2016 - And so completes these tales of Rita Skeeter and Sirius Black.


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